


what we've got is gold

by liginamite



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Author and Architect AU, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 10:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: DeBlanc buys tea for a stranger at a café. Things go from there.





	what we've got is gold

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting and gathering dust in my google docs for almost a year now, but after recent events i figured it was about time i took it out, brushed it off, and finished it up. so. we'll see how this goes.
> 
> title is from [stay the night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1yOGhnmYfI) by james blunt.

He’s got writer’s block.

It’s a pain, is what it is. It’s hours worth of sitting in front of his laptop, tapping a pen up and down and up and down on his notepad over and over again while sunlight pours in through the windows, and coming up with absolutely _nothing._ DeBlanc’s got the first couple of chapters down, but as his editor likes to remind him over and over again, deadlines aren’t going to go away just because you can’t come up with anything. He’s half expecting her to call any second, harried and furious.

His desk is pressed up against the window, which is nice enough sometimes, but right now it’s leading to him staring past the curtains, watching as mothers walk by with their strollers, as birds chirp in the trees and leaves flutter happily in the light wind. It looks quite nice out; maybe going outside and taking in some fresh air would be good for him. Maybe he might catch some inspiration on the breeze.

He ends up not moving at all, but it’s a nice enough thought.

The pen _chikachiks_ every time he absentmindedly presses it down against the polished wood of his desk, in tune with the radio buzzing in the background. The empty white screen of his laptop stares back at him, shaming him every time his eyes flicker back outside. He keeps pressing a key every time the screen goes black with inactivity, as if that’ll somehow convince both the laptop and himself that something’s getting done before the end of the day.

“Shit,” he says out loud, and scribbles “NOTHING” in big bold letters all over the notebook next to it on the desk before scratching it out again. It’s something of a dramatic thing to do, which he acknowledges, and he scoffs once at himself before reaching over to turn the page and start anew. Writes in all capitals CHAPTER THREE and starts running the pen over every individual line to make it louder on the page. When he’s done it stands out, a beacon, something to preface plenty of notes.

And then… he sits there some more.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says again. The chair skids on the wooden floor as he pushes away from his desk, makes his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on and possibly try to get some tea going. He’s not sure how much it’s going to help, but it’s better than just sitting at his desk like an absolute ass and just hope something magically happens. At the very least, he’ll have some tea.

The cabinet creaks as he reaches for his tea and-- and of course, he’s completely out of tea anyway, which goes to show if nothing else how utterly distracted he’s been by this deadline. Forgot to buy tea. He’s about to call it quits and just read a book before his phone starts to buzz in his pocket. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize, and the phone clicks loudly as he answers.

“Hel--”

_“Mate, have I got a story for you. So I’m walkin’ along downtown, alright--”_

DeBlanc turns where he’s standing, brow furrowed as he looks down at the screen briefly before pulling it back up to his ear.

“Cassidy?” 

“ _Who else?_ ” The answer comes with a scoff. It’s a fair enough statement. “ _Anyways, as I was sayin’, so I’m walking along minding me own business and alright I may or may not have had a jay hanging out me mouth but that’s hardly relevant to the situation, and this prostitute, yeah, well she up and decides--_ ”

“Cassidy,” DeBlanc repeats louder, with more force.

“ _Jesus_ , _**what**._ ”

“Did you get a new phone?” 

“ _Yeah, I got a new phone_ ,” Cassidy replies easily, and there’s the _oof_ and hiss of air as he clearly flops down onto a couch. “ _Other one got lost, somewhere in the river I think. I don’t remember._ ” 

He’s about to ask how Cassidy could’ve possibly lost his phone in the river, but if he really thinks about it, it’s far from the strangest thing Cassidy’s ever told him he’s done. The burner clicks as he turns off the stove, hauls the kettle towards the sink.

“ _Anyway, I forgot what I was saying, so it can’t have been important. How’s the new book coming, eh_?”

“Oh, fantastic,” DeBlanc replies dryly, finally dumping the still cold water down the drain with his phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. “Can’t wait for you to see the headlines. Local author and confirmed bachelor kills himself because he ran out of tea.”

“ _Mmm, sounds riveting_ ,” Cassidy says, and DeBlanc can hear the sound of a match lighting. “ _Well, I’ll certainly miss you, mate. How in the hell did you forget to buy tea, anyway?_ ” 

“I’m distracted.” 

“ _Mmmmm_ ,” Cassidy hums again, longer this time. He doesn’t sound very convinced. “ _By what, exactly_?” 

Now it sounds like he’s got something in his mouth. DeBlanc’s got his money on either a pen or grass. With Cassidy, it could just as easily be one as the other, though the aforementioned strike of a match leads way to the latter.

“Why are you calling me?” DeBlanc says a little impatiently, ignoring the question, and Cassidy scoffs.

“ _Can’t call my mate when I’m feeling bored, is that what we’ve come to?_ ” 

DeBlanc sighs as he makes his way back over to his desk, sits down and stares at the empty white paper. Cassidy’s quiet on the other end for a moment, which is never a good sign. It usually means he’s up to something. He’s still not entirely sure when exactly Cassidy became his _friend_ and not the strange bloke he met a couple of years back in the supermarket looking like he was stealing all the pints of ice cream, but he’ll leave it be. 

(“I had the munchies is what it was, alright, it’s what happens, don’t you be judging me for no little bit of self-indulgence. I wasn’t in me right mind. Seeing colors and shite.”) 

Sure enough: “ _I bet what you need is a change of scenery._ ” 

“My scenery is fine,” DeBlanc replies, picking up his pen. His apartment might be on the smaller side, but it’s cozy, and it’s never failed him in the past. “What it is, is a block. That’s all.”

“ _Well, how else are we gonna knock it down? Gotta get you out and about, you know. Here, listen_.” He grunts, clearly sitting up, and DeBlanc barely manages not to sigh as he starts running his pen over the lines of the H in ‘chapter’ again. “ _We’ll find you a nice little cozy where you can take your laptop or your pad or whatever it is you’ve got today and we’ll have you settle about in the public so you feel pressured. That’s what you need. Pressure_.”

“I thought I needed a change of scenery.”

“ _Well with that attitude it’s clear you need both.”_

“I’ve got plenty of pressure on me,” DeBlanc says, thinking of his editor again. She’s going to maul him if she finds out he hasn’t gotten anything done today. Sweet girl, but very forceful when the need calls for it. “I just… need to work through it.” 

“ _Well, at the very least you can go get yourself some tea_ ,” Cassidy says, which is logical enough. “ _Get out of the house, boyo, smell the fresh air. Good lord. Bet it smells musty in there by now._ ” 

It’s very hard not to sniff around indignantly as he replies, “it’s not _musty_. The window’s open.” 

Talking Cassidy out of anything when he’s got his mind set on it is a hell of a challenge, though, and sure enough after a bit of Googling, Cassidy’s telling him about a little cafe, “ _only half a dozen blocks away from your place. Worth us takin’ a look at, aye?_ ”

DeBlanc clicks his pen again, starts doodling a flower on the corner of the page. There’s no arguing, and, well. If procrastination with a walk leads to eventual progress, he can at the very least justify it. A breeze ruffles the paper, and he sighs.

“Might as well.” 

“ _Cheers_ ,” Cassidy says brightly, and hangs up. 

-

It’s a bit windy out, which is nice. He throws on a cap, tugs his coat tight around his shoulders and makes his way out the door. Cassidy may be a bit of a nutter on occasion, but he was certainly right about fresh air; DeBlanc takes a deep breath and immediately feels a bit better for it. Everything smells like leaves and the brick of the city and the sharp, crisp scent of fall. 

He makes his way down the stoop and nods at a few neighbors with a small smile as he walks by. They seem briefly hesitant, but wave at him nonetheless. He’s not particularly reclusive, but he does like his privacy and maybe that comes off as such. That or they think he’s stuck-up. Ah, well. At least he’s out now. 

The walk to the cafe is nice enough. The city’s always loud, the sounds of sirens and honking ever in the distance, but bustle and crowds has always been something he’s used to--particularly crowded places--and it feels much better than sitting at his desk, staring at absolutely nothing. 

There’s construction going on a couple blocks down, and that sends some of the traffic from the city their way. It’s already thick, what with it being midday, and he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets, waiting for the light to turn. It’s the good kind of windy, the kind that has his scarf whipping about and people screeching in shock at a particularly hard gust. It nearly takes his hat right off his head, but he keeps a hand pressed tight against it.

As he walks up to the cafe, he does take note of how old-fashioned it seems. It’s a cute little place, with a green outside and pink trim. There are tables outside, a couple of people chattering happily without a care in the world. There’s a bell over the door when he enters. The place is spacious, lots of people bustling here and there. 

“Afternoon!” says the boy behind the counter; he looks young, like this is a part time job right before college. “Windy out there, huh? Well, anyway, what’ll it be today, boss?” 

“Hello,” DeBlanc says absentmindedly, reading through the list on the back wall. It’s all written in cheerful, bright chalk, and he squints at some of the choices. “Do you have tea?” 

“Sure do,” the cashier replies. “How do you take it?”

DeBlanc tells him, and before long he’s got a nice hot cardboard cup between his hands, warming up what cold had started to seep in from the wind. He blows a bit into the mouthpiece, and after he pays he tosses an extra dollar in a big ceramic mug that says “FOR EXCEPTIONAL SERVICE” in big bold letters. 

“Hey, thanks, man! Have a great one!” The cashier sounds genuine about it, and then he’s bustling about behind the counter, making more drinks for other customers. It’s certainly a cozy little place, and DeBlanc wanders over to one of the dark green leather chairs tucked away by a little shelf stacked with books. He scans them for a minute, and grins when he finds one of his own from a couple of years ago, the edges worn from reading.

No, not a bad little place at all. 

When he finds himself in the same bind the next day right around noon, no inspiration coming to him whatsoever, he sighs, shuts his laptop with purpose. 

Well. The tea had been quite good.

He packs his laptop, some notepads, his charger, all the things he needs into his bag and hauls it onto one shoulder. He’s never wanted to be _that guy,_ the one that sits in a coffee shop every day with his laptop out, but nothing’s coming to him while he’s sitting at his desk. At least, nothing that he can actually _use._ It’s getting to be a pain. So off he goes.

It’s not quite as windy as it was the day before, and there’s a bit of an energy in his step despite himself as he pulls out his phone while he walks.

“Do you actually plan on meeting me at this cafe at any point?” he asks when Cassidy picks up, groaning sleepily. 

“ _Thought I was the one what started conversations without segues. What cafe?”_

“What caf--where are you?” There’s rustling in the background, followed by a voice he doesn’t recognize.

“ _An ol’ pal of mine,_ ” Cassidy says to someone on his end, and then he’s back to the conversation. “ _Oh, you know. I’m around.”_ There’s a pause. _“Ohhh, aye, that cafe. Yeah, no, mate, I’ll pop in, don’t you worry._ ” 

DeBlanc works hard not to roll his eyes, holding up a hand to the car that lets him cross the street. “Well, I thought I’d give you the satisfaction of knowing that it worked. I do feel a bit… well, inspired.”

“ _Ahhh, I told you,”_ Cassidy crows smugly, even though he sounds still half-asleep. DeBlanc can already picture his cheeky grin. _“See, you trust ol’ Cassidy, he knows what he’s talking about.”_

“I’m never saying you were right again,” DeBlanc warns, shouldering open the door of the cafe. Cassidy snorts in his ear.

_“I’ll hold this one close to me heart, then.”_

It leaves him with a chuckle as he hangs up, and the same cheerful cashier is behind the counter. He remembers DeBlanc’s order from the day before, which is actually a bit flattering and mostly a pleasant shock, and soon enough he’s sitting down at one of the empty tables, tugging his notepad out of his bag. 

_**CHAPTER THREE**_ is still glaring up at him, but this time when he puts the pen down, he actually comes up with something. It’s not a lot, and it’s certainly not a magical fix, but the gentle tinkle of the door’s bell and the chatter of the people around him, the warmth of the tea and the gentle, tinny sound of the radio above him is a stark contrast to his cozy little apartment. 

He’s only there for a couple of hours, drinking tea and writing, but by the time he starts to pack up he’s got nearly a page and a half filled with notes and ideas, and he can’t help but privately grin at all of it. He doesn’t quite want to be rude, so he buys another tea to bring home with him, and the cashier winks at him.

“See you tomorrow, boss?” he asks, and after a moment of deliberation, DeBlanc holds up his cup in a mock salute as he turns to leave.

“See you tomorrow.” 

It starts to become a bit of a routine. For the most part he can still work from home, but most days he packs up all his things around noon and heads down to the cafe, always just for a couple hours. He likes the quiet bustle of it there, and while he still prefers his privacy and he’s almost always back home before three, it’s nice to have something worked into his schedule that actually gets him out of his apartment. The walk to and from the cafe is another good reason; he’s getting some exercise in again. 

About a week or two into this little routine, though, he wakes up earlier, blinking dazedly into the sunlight that’s streaming in through and groaning. The birds chitter about outside, like they’re not being aggressively cheerful so early in the morning. He sits up and runs a hand down his face, feeling the scratchiness of his beard against his fingertips. 

The honks of the city combined with the vague sound of construction in the distance filter in past the birds, and he sighs, tugs the sheets off and starts to get dressed. 

The city’s always just a bit quieter at this time of day, and he glances at his watch once before he makes his way back, starting earlier than he’s quite used to. He’s got two more chapters in the bag, and if he spends a good portion of the day working, he might be able to finish chapter five by the end of the night. 

He takes a place in line, behind a man much taller than he is. 

“Usual for you?” the cashier says. The boy’s always so cheerful regardless of the time of day that it’s almost an inspiration. The man in front of him nods, and reaches into his pocket before freezing. 

There are a couple moments of awkward silence, and then the man sighs, somewhat painfully.

“...I forgot my wallet,” he says, head down as he pats futilely at his pockets. He’s got an accent, and it only takes a second for DeBlanc to recognize it as one nearly identical to his own. He hasn’t met anyone else from the UK besides Cassidy, and that itself is a bit of a shocker that he blinks a couple of times. 

Well, he’s got cash to spare.

“I’ve got it,” he pipes up, leaning over and holding out his card. “No worries.” 

The man looks at him with eyes that are too wide and too blue, like he’s not sure how he ought to respond. He flicks his gaze downwards as if he were sizing DeBlanc up, lips thinning. It’s a gesture that DeBlanc’s not unused to, but then the man looks back up, and when he speaks again it’s hesitant, unsure.

“...why?” 

DeBlanc shrugs.

“Call it a random act of kindness.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, watches as the cashier looks between the two of them. The man stares at him for a moment longer before looking back at the cashier, who shrugs at him.

“We’ll have that out for you in a second, Fiore,” he says to the man in front of DeBlanc, and then glances over at him, too. “The same as usual for you too, boss?”

DeBlanc nods, and then somewhat awkwardly steps over to the side as soon as he’s handed back his card. He busies himself with tucking it back into his wallet, checking the strap on his bag before he can make his way over to his corner again as soon as he’s handed his drink.

He looks up from the notepad, startled, as someone sits down across from him with purpose.

“Let me pay you back,” the man, Fiore, says shortly, and DeBlanc starts to shake his head.

“It’s alright, I promise. You don’t have to.”

But Fiore shakes his head a couple of times, and to DeBlanc’s bewilderment, he holds out his empty hand.

“Can I?” he asks, gesturing towards DeBlanc’s drink. For a moment DeBlanc’s not sure what he means, but as he stares at Fiore’s outstretched hand, it clicks. It’s the most bizarre question he’s been asked by someone who wasn’t Cassidy, and it takes him a moment to decide on what his answer ought to be. 

“Oh, I-- sure. Alright.” 

Very carefully, Fiore reaches out and takes the cup out of DeBlanc’s hands. He lets it go, curious to see what happens. Fiore’s face is intense as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen, clicks it off the tabletop before starting to scribble on the cardboard. DeBlanc watches as he slowly turns the cup as he draws, and he catches loopy streaks of ink. 

“I like to draw,” Fiore says quietly, by way of explanation. His eyes are focused on the task at hand, but his words are directed at DeBlanc. “Maybe this could make up for it a bit.” 

DeBlanc doesn’t answer, instead watching as Fiore slowly turns the cup around at eye level in his hand as he doodles. He manages not to spill a drop, and when he hands it back with a small smile, DeBlanc blinks a couple of times down at the red cardboard.

“This is… it’s beautiful,” he says out loud, stunned. Lines of ink come together to create flowers blooming all across the bottom of the cup, billowing out and curling together. There’s an almost cartoonish look about them, but definitely more skill than the little doodle that’s still on the top of his notepad. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Fiore says, sounding pleased with himself. His eyes are still on the cup, too. “I haven’t seen you here before.” 

“No…” DeBlanc says slowly. “I usually come a bit later on in the day.” He turns the cup around to stare at the drawings. The flowers bloom out in all directions, and some of them are detailed enough that he can identify what they are: roses, petunias, even a carnation here or there. It’s brilliant. “My friend keeps saying he’ll meet me. Never does.” 

“Seems rude of him,” Fiore says quite bluntly, and DeBlanc actually laughs a bit.

“Yes. It’s just like him, though.” 

Fiore hums softly, his fingers loosely stacked on top of each other with the pen between them. As if it’s a second thought, he pulls back, shoves the pen back into his pocket and picks up his own drink again. DeBlanc manages to tear his eyes away from his so that he can raise an eyebrow.

“Do you do anything with talent like this?” he asks, holding up the cup, and Fiore’s lips almost quirk into a grin.

“Here and there. Mostly architecture.” He takes a sip of his own tea. “I’m here to work on a project downtown.” 

DeBlanc mock squints at him. “So you’re what’s caused all the noise around here,” he says, adds just a bit of fake anger to his tone.

He watches as that small smile grows just a little bigger. 

“I think so, yes.” 

DeBlanc scoffs goodnaturedly, and holds out his hand, introduces himself. Fiore’s hand is warm when he takes it. 

“What are you writing about?” Fiore asks curiously, tilting his head as he glances over at the notepad, and DeBlanc can’t help the wicked little grin as he takes another sip.

“I write books. Murder mysteries, mostly,” he says into the cup, after he’s swallowed. “The last one was about a serial killer.” 

Fiore’s eyes widen at that, but rather than look any kind of intimidated, he leans in closer with his hands cupped around his still-steaming drink. He seems fascinated by that, which is not the usual reaction of sitting back a little bit and glancing at him warily. A nice change of pace, that.

“Did he get away with it?” he asks, and DeBlanc cocks his head before he understands, and that brings another smile to his face. He leans forward conspiratorially.

“He didn’t.” 

Fiore nods to himself, sitting back again. He’s tapping one finger against his cup, and it echoes a bit, the sound of half-empty cardboard, but it seems more unconscious than boredom. It’s not very hard to talk to him, it turns out. He asks simple questions, asks about other books and in return DeBlanc finds himself asking about the construction down the street. They’re both from similar spots in London, though Fiore’s visiting on a visa. 

“I moved here a few years ago,” DeBlanc explains, finishing off the last of his tea. “It seemed easier.” 

“Probably was,” Fiore says, and there’s an undercurrent of annoyance. “Work visas are a pain. Which...” he looks over at the clock on the wall and sighs. “It’s been… very nice talking to you, but I need to head out.”

Glancing at his watch, DeBlanc nods, starts packing up his things. It’s much more interaction than he’s expected out of the day, and he’s enjoyed it. “I might as well, too,” he says, somewhat to himself. He waits until Fiore’s attention is taken by the door opening, and quietly slips his empty cup into his bag as well. It seems a pity to throw it out. 

“Thank you again, for the tea,” Fiore says, and pulls his collar up against the wind that’s started to pick up as they leave the cafe. “I do appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome.” DeBlanc tugs his scarf a little bit farther up, until it’s against his chin. The wind whips around them, and it rings the bell over the little shop’s door as someone else leaves. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime, Fiore.” 

“Yes,” Fiore replies, and while he’s not quite looking at him, there’s a very small smile on his face. “Maybe.” 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [tumblr](http://hullums.tumblr.com)!


End file.
